Dramatic Title Reference!

Courtesy of cperce.wordpress.com, a depiction of the varied environments of Afghanistan a soldier may encounter. On the left, the gardens of ISAF headquarters. On the right, troops sleeping in holes in the ground. I'm very glad my experience falls more on the left side of things. Yes the picture quality sucks. I'm sorry.

I'm sure many of you have had this experience before (and if you haven't, humor me). You're reading a book, or maybe watching a movie, particularly enjoying yourself. You're well towards the end of the story, and have long stopped wondering what the odd title of the story actually means. So far, it hasn't made a bit of sense to you, but the story has been good so you haven't really cared. And then suddenly from left field - BAM! - title reference, and neurons fire as you make a noise of revelation: "Ohhhhhhh!" The conversation between Holden Caufield and his sister in The Catcher in the Rye. Learning at long last the identity of the antagonist in William Gibson's Neuromancer. Samuel L. Jackson's one-liner in the particularly awful movie Unthinkable (don't watch it unless you enjoy being angry).

Forgive me if I just spell mine out. I don't have a gift for literary subtleties.

When I originally decided to start blogging about my deployment experiences, I wasn't sure if I was ever going to tell anyone about it, or if I was even going to continue with it. It was just an experiment. But, just in case, I decided to come up with a name. It needed to be something more creative than "K.C.'s Deployment Blog". I started looking around at other military blogs (milblogs for short) for some inspiration. My favorite (though I would classify this guy as much more of a reporter than a blogger, but cut me some slack) is written by Michael Yon. He's been an embedded reporter in Iraq and Afghanistan almost continuously for the last six years. Unfortunately, his site is simply entitled michaelyon-online.com. (Aside: Go check it out if you haven't ever heard of it. Recently he's been covering the political unrest in Thailand, and it's been pretty interesting.) Titling my site after myself without having written a single word sounded quite presumptuous, so I passed.

Some of Mr. Yon's strongest critics have blogs entitled things like Blackfive and Mudville Gazette. That was getting closer to what I wanted, but I didn't want to come off like I thought I was in special ops or the next incarnation of James Bond. It needed to be toned down.

What finally tripped my switch was a visit to a blog run by another deployed civilian. This guy's blog was actually what gave me the idea to start my own, so in retrospect it seems appropriate that I drew title inspiration from him as well. The author deployed in February to an area not far from where I am, and went through a CRC process similar to my own, though at a different location (Indiana). His blog is entitled "Living In Harm's Way". (Unfortunately, he hasn't updated in quite some time.)

When I started reading this blog, I really hated the title. Yeah, you're in a combat zone, I get that. But to claim you're in "harm's way" seems pretty outlandish when compared to what the soldiers in the south are going through. In the south, there's a a realistic expectation of getting blown up every time you leave the wire (base). That's not the case here. Yes, it's possible, and you need to avoid getting complacent to that possibility, but the reality is that there have only been a handful of IEDs and attacks in Kabul in the recent past. This isn't the Taliban playground that Kandahar and Helmand province are. For cryin' out loud, if I feel like it, I can take a two minute walk to a massage parlor and get my back worked over for an hour by a Russian masseuse. A co-worker just got her nails done yesterday. In a combat zone. Clear and present danger or not, this does not feel like "in harm's way". In all fairness to the author of this blog, he is based on a much smaller base where attacks are more likely to occur, and they did have a rocket propelled grenade come over the wall not long after he arrived. It's his blog and his experience, and if he feels he's in harm's way, then by all means roll with it. I just knew that in my situation, that description was, in my opinion, completely inappropriate.

And thus, I struck on what came to be the title of my blog. The first part, Five Star, because I consider these to be five star accommodations relative to where I am. Yes, I live in a tent, have to smell sewage as it's siphoned out of the overflowing sewer on a daily basis, and can't drink the water lest my stomach rot out of my body. This is still FAR better than what the fighting forces in the remote parts of the country deal with. They're stuck in 115 degree heat, in the sand and dirt, with no idea when their next hot shower will be, meals out of a bag, and no chance of getting to call home everyday, or blog in their spare time. Five star, indeed, compared to that.

The second part, Foxhole, because foxhole is synonymous with your point of view in military lingo. "From my foxhole, it seems like..." A foxhole is also close to the fight. You have a better view of the battle from a foxhole because you're usually IN the battle. While I may not be "fighting", I am certainly in the fight here in Kabul, so foxhole felt appropriate.

Add salt and pepper to taste, and there you have it. The title reference. Hopefully I didn't ruin the ending for anyone.

*****

So if my experience is worthy of five stars, the U.S. Embassy down the street must be somewhere around eleven.

A while back, a group of us from work went to the embassy for dinner. They actually charge you $8 to eat there, so we were interested to see what the place was going to be like. We had to walk about a half mile off post to get there, but were still in the green zone. On either side of us were the walls of various compounds with machine gun nests overlooking the street. Knowing there were heavily armed people watching over me felt reassuring and ominous all at once.

When we got to the first security checkpoint, there was a large sign that said "NO PHOTOGRAPHY: VIOLATORS WILL BE APPREHENDED". Ok, then. Glad I left my camera at the office. I guess that makes sense though. After all, the embassy is where all the important people stay, like the politicians and lawyers. Without them we won't ever win this war.

Three more security gates later, we were led into a small building to be scanned by a metal detector before given final clearance to step inside the embassy compound. On the other side, we opened the door and stepped through to...

America.

I kid you not. On one side of the door was war-torn Afghanistan, with its razor wire, dirty children and heavily armed guards. On the other was the United States of America. Western architecture. Freshly cut lawn. Landscaping. People dressed in normal civilian clothes, talking in a group around a picnic table. Real office and apartment buildings. Apartments! A beach volley ball court, complete with beautiful people laughing as they frolicked in the sand. If you looked close enough at the illusion, you could see the armed guards patrolling the fence line, and the sand bags stacked against the temporary buildings, but painted white to blend in. (I'm serious, they painted their sand bags. Outrageous.) But you had to look HARD to be distracted from the Americana oozing from the surroundings.

In my daze I thought I heard a voice say, "Lets gather for a photo over here." Now I knew I was dreaming, as there weren't supposed to be pictures taken here. Wasn't there a very large sign outside with veiled threats of handcuffs and iron bars? But as I turned, indeed, we were gathering for a picture. A soft alarm bell rang in my ears, as I said to the camera man, "Are you sure we can take pictures in here? I thought the sign said no." I was assured that the sign was only telling you not to take pictures of the security check points. I gave him a look, but he had been here before and knew what he was talking about, so I went along and smiled, albeit uncomfortably, for the camera. Click. I flinched and waited. No guard dogs. No alarms. Everyone else looked happy. Hmmm. I guess I was wrong. I relaxed my shoulders a fraction.

Next we walked over to the embassy building itself. We took turns standing in front of the U.S. Embassy seal that was directly under a security camera while having our picture taken. My turn came to hold the camera. Feeling ok with this now, I pointed it at the seal and my subject. Click. I checked the photo to see if it came out good. And then: "Sir!"

Oh. No.

I turned to my left to see a rather large fellow in polo shirt, khakis and combat boots with a pistol on his hip approaching me. He was clearly wearing body armor under his civilian clothes. "Sir, there's no photography on the premises. You're going to have to come with me."

I gulped. "Ok", I croaked. I turned to my compadres standing under the security camera. (Did I mention we were taking pictures right underneath the security camera?) Every one of them had taken a picture with the camera I was holding. And wouldn't you know it, they were all slooooowly backing away.

"Sir, lets go. This way, please"

I turned and stepped forward, accepting my fate, taking a bullet for the team. I was escorted inside the embassy building to the main security counter. The guard took the camera and set it against the back wall, then radioed for his supervisor. I started wondering if I was going to get to eat dinner tonight.

A girl in her mid twenties wearing a nice dress and high heels approached the counter to get a new holder for her embassy ID. Her old one had broken. While she waited for the guard, she turned to me. "What are you in here for?" In my uniform, I stood out starkly from the normal embassy crowd.

"Umm...taking pictures." I bowed my head in shame.

"Ohhh, you're in big trouble," she chided, her voice lilting in mirth, before moving on through the card swipe door beyond. Ugh. This was getting worse. At least it wasn't my camera.

After about 10 minutes of torture, the guard not answering my questions, no sign of my friends, the supervisor showed. The guard handed him the camera and the supervisor asked me to show him what I had taken. I ran through the photos. He nodded and looked at me. "Did you see the sign out front?" I had. "Was that not clear enough for you?" I was told it was only for the security points. "Who told you that?" My friend. "Did he see the sign?" Yes, yes he had. I simmered.

After the supervisor was done having fun at my expense, he let me go, pictures intact. After examining them, there wasn't anything sensitive photographed, so he didn't see a need to delete them. "Next time," he said, "ask a guard first if you can take the pictures, and they'll tell you if it's OK or not." Incredulous, I quickly made my way outside to freedom.

Of course I was mocked without mercy by my group of "friends" for being the one to get caught. Except for my buddy Andrew, the one who had told me it was OK in the first place. He felt bad about getting me in trouble, especially since it was his camera. I forgave him. I was just glad I wasn't tied to a chair in a concrete room with an exposed light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

I tell you all this so that you'll better appreciate this otherwise boring picture.

Many bothans died to bring you this information.

After the brush with incarceration, we had a really nice time. The food was a step up from Camp Eggers, but only one step, nothing spectacular (though they did have six flavors of ice cream instead of the customary two). However, the venue was incredible. Inside was an actual dining area, not a tent or a modified house. The floor was spotless. Floor length windows looked out on the patio. Since the night was nice, we decided to eat outside. Seating on the patio was at glass top picnic tables under a canvas canopy beside a swimming pool. We were occasionally interrupted by tennis balls bouncing over the fence from the court just down the way. Things couldn't possibly be more different than the hodge-podge base I lived at down the street. (You'll just have to imagine it, 'm afraid, as I wasn't about to chance more photography after what I went through earlier).

The night was breezy and cool and clear, and we sat and talked and ate for an hour, forgetting the war and the stress and the pace of the jobs waiting for us down the street. We talked of home, and it seemed we were talking about somewhere just around the corner, rather than several thousand miles away.

And just before we were able to completely slip away into our reverie, the chatter of automatic rifle fire carried over the wall. We stopped mid conversation, each of us listening for any follow-on shots or explosions, waiting for a cue to run to a bunker or continue on with our meal. When no further sounds of violence came, some one made a joke. Just a car backfire, right? We laughed uneasily, and resumed dinner, now firmly grounded in the reality of our location, fooled by the illusion no more.

That's all for tonight. Thanks for reading. Out here.